


The Walkers

by Cloudlb



Category: Stargate SG-1, The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Blair, Crossover, Drama, First Time, M/M, Post-Series, Shaman!Blair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudlb/pseuds/Cloudlb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a TSBBS fix, because every TS writer needs at least one.  It's also an eventual SG-1 crossover, ditto.</p><p>Sweet and sappy, with many silly devices.  Canon, what canon?   Shaman!Blair; bonding activity, mystical orgasms, messing with the Stargate, frivolous use of the Ninth Chevron.   Even though it's a SG-1 crossover, it remains Jim/Blair-centric (sorry, Jack/Daniel fans!)  Mostly likely one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recalibration

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the many fine TS writers who have gone before

_Dancing is one of the great pleasures of life. Using dance as a way to go into trance dates back 40,000 years, before recorded civilization, to our shamanic and aboriginal ancestors . . . Since before time, we have listened to the beat of our heart. Then we began to move like the animals we worshipped. Now, eyes closed and covered with a bandana, your feet firmly planted, begin to deeply breathe. Feel the power of your breath moving in and out, and you will find yourself entranced._

It is time for us all to dance again.

"Spirit Catcher" – Professor Trance.

***

 

Elegant hands stroked sandpaper over finely grained wood. Sensitive fingers tested and smoothed, until the silken finish made the wood seem to glow. Head bent in concentration, eyes half-lidded, the Sentinel poured all of his energy, strength, and love into the long column of sturdy wood in his hands; sanding, shaping, and carving, speaking through the wood. He hoped his Guide understood. He needed Blair to understand, after all they had gone through, and all he suspected was coming.

It's not that things were that bad anymore—it's just that things were getting *weird.* Again. Jim hated the Weird Shit (as he labeled it in his mind) and Blair wasn't around to help him with it. So, he was dealing with the weirdness in his own way, up on the roof in his workshop. He turned wood, and thought about his partner and their lives.

Without Jim's knowledge, Blair had conspired with the commissioner of police for a second press conference after the Zeller fiasco. The commissioner informed the press that Sandburg had the full confidence of the PD and would be accepted into the fast-track officer program. On the podium, Blair this time explained that the fraud story had been for the benefit of the notorious serial killer in their midst and for the protection of the public, and that Blair himself had been a victim of theft of intellectual property. He further stated the paper released was not his real dissertation, but merely a fictionalized workout for a series of books; that although his real dissertation was related to the subject matter of the leaked material, they were not the same. He deftly avoided any question designed to get him to admit or deny that James Ellison was a Sentinel, and instead focused on the legal action he intended to file against the publisher for release of his intellectual property without his permission, and against Rainier for wrongful termination. It was a virtuoso obfuscation.

As a result of the compromises reached, Blair had been furiously working on his dissertation for the past few weeks. Blair had traveled twice to Coastal University in Santa Barbara, California, Rainier's sister institution, to consult with professors there regarding "Protecting the Tribe: Cross-Cultural Comparisons of Law Enforcement Officers and Pre-Industrial Tribal Guardians." Even when he was in the loft, he was "gone"-- holed up in his little room working and typing furiously, his notes and references spread all over the walls and the futon.

That was all well and good, and Jim couldn't be happier for him; but it meant that Blair wasn't around to pick up on the things that were bothering his Sentinel, and Jim was left to contemplate the Weird Shit all by himself. He current woodworking project started out as a walking stick for himself, as an aid to the gunshot wound in his leg, but his healing had outpaced his plan by far. That was one of the weird things.

Jim switched to a finer grit and began to sand the carving on the head of the stick. He considered more of the weird things as he worked. Better to consider them in the light of day, rather than in the dead of night, since his imagination tended to run amok during the wee hours, especially without his Guide's steadying presence.

Okay, the healing was one thing. Both he and Blair had recovered from their disastrous trek to Mexico and the attendant upheaval in their lives remarkably quickly. Blair's lungs and sinuses were apparently back to normal. Further, ever since their moment of connection beyond the veil (he prodded the memory of the fountain gingerly, like a sore tooth) Jim found himself increasingly aware of Blair in a way he hadn't anticipated. It was if he had a "Guide" dial now, fine-tuning a humming awareness of the other man, including approximate location and state of mind. Worse, even with that unprecedented sensitivity to his partner, Jim admitted to himself that he only wanted to get closer. He loved the little shit, and there was just no denying it.

Jim sighed and shifted his weight on the non-injured leg. Only a slight soreness remained, but he was tired because neither of them was sleeping much. Sandburg worked long into the night, and Jim couldn't sleep well when Sandburg was awake. When he did, his dreams were—weird. Jim was dreaming lots of circles. It was funny, all those jokes about trains in tunnels—he was inclined at first to think they were not-so-subtle sexual clues. But now Jim thought there was a deeper meaning, something he wasn't catching. He needed his Shaman.

Jim knew he was overdue for a talk with his roommate, and soon, but right now, he redoubled his attention on his craftsmanship, pinning his hopes on the message to be conveyed with his gift.

***

A week later Jim was again on the roof; this time with Blair. They had a heater, but it was still chilly, so they were sitting close together, sharing their warmth. With his Sentinel taste buds, Jim found that he had become a pretty decent wine connoisseur, so the two men were also sharing a bottle of chardonnay.

Eventually, Jim noticed that Blair's calm, warm scent was changing into the scent of nerves. Blair kept darting little glances over to him, a behavior he recognized as leading up to something Blair was afraid Jim wouldn't like. Although apprehension made his gut clench, he was also relieved; it looked as though Blair was ready to talk. He decided a preemptory strike was in order, so he stood up. "Say, Chief. I want to show you something, okay?" He went to the small workshop, and he retrieved a long, carefully wrapped bundle. Handing it to Blair, he waited nervously for his partner's reaction.

Blair unwrapped the bundle, and gaped, turning the two beautifully made walking sticks in his hand. For a long moment, Blair said nothing. Then he looked up, he eyes shining. "Jim, these are the most amazing things I've ever seen! You made them?"

Although one of the stout sticks was slightly longer than the other, they were both made from a veined golden wood and they matched well. An alert panther was carved on the sturdy shank of one, below the smoothly polished handle. A happy wolf was carved into the top of taller one, which was less of a walking stick than a genuine staff, especially for the shorter man it was intended for. Jim had wrapped the grip, just underneath the grinning wolf, with leather, finishing it off with a single turquoise drop.

Jim sat down and leaned closer to Blair, looking into his eyes, willing him to understand. "They're made from the same tree. It's so you know, Chief, and understand. I'm ready to take that trip with you."

"Oh, Jim." Blair stood up abruptly and leaned against the brick wall of the stairwell. The breeze rustled his hair, and Jim held his breath. Blair was so beautiful to him. Jim knew that the ones you truly loved are always the most beautiful.

The younger man turned and looked from the walking sticks to Jim. "Are you sure, Jim? Honestly, you've been kind of a jerk over the past year or so, and I'm haven't been totally convinced you want me around."

Panic gripped Jim's heart. "You're right, and I'm sorry. I can only say it again: I intend to take that trip with you." He spread his hands and tried to look charming. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Jim, these walking sticks—" Blair broke off, a troubled frown on his face. He shook his head. "You know what? I'm not ready to talk about it. Yet. You've given me a lot to think about." Blair's eyes glowed with emotion in the dim light. "I'm gonna crash, and then I'm going to meditate for a while." Blair turned and headed to the stairwell, but turned back for a moment, shining a tender smile toward his Sentinel. "Stop panicking! I love them, Jim, and I get it, really. It'll be all right, but I have to process."

He took his walking stick with him, though, and Jim had to be satisfied with that for now.

***

Jim paced the halls of academia; or more accurately, he stalked along the sunny sidewalk at Coastal U, waiting for his partner to finish defending his dissertation. He tried not to listen, but he was pretty much obsessively focused on his Guide, and it was hard. It was difficult not to hear Sandburg respond to the examiners with technical and dispassionate academic lingo with regard to "modern community guardians" and "increasing viability of sensory techniques in forensics," and "police," "closed society," and finally, "sentinel." All those buzzwords rather captured his attention.

Jim gritted his teeth, and turned the corner, back in the direction of the social sciences building. He nervously shoved his hands in his pockets. Whatever insight Blair was gaining, he hoped he would share with his Sentinel soon. Since he had shown Blair the walking sticks, Blair had been warm and happy, but only distantly reassuring. He was still "processing." Jim felt like he was on tenterhooks; restless and struggling with urges he wasn't prepared for. He hoped that defending his doctorate would be the last step in Blair's processing. He missed his Shaman.

He really didn't know what Blair was planning to do, either—whether he would go to the Academy, or whether he had some other plan up his sleeve. The Weird Shit was giving him hints of possibilities that were alarming. Maybe an extended vacation was in order—travel was supposed to be broadening, wasn't it?

For the Sentinel, the worst part of this limbo was that Blair was avoiding touch; perhaps even withholding it. Touch was one of the most underrated senses, in Jim's opinion. It included not only the feeling and awareness of a human touch, but the feel of the air and pressure upon his skin, and his sense of location and balance; even rhythm, walking, and movement. Jim had resisted most of Blair's touch experiments from early on, because he craved it so much. He'd been uncomfortable turning that dial up in Blair's presence, but this was getting ridiculous. No amount of woodworking or working out could substitute for the touch of his Guide.

Maybe they could stay home; hole up and block out the world, so he could concentrate on his partner. Jim got flashes of cocooning the younger man in his bed, surrounding him in pillows, catering to his every wish and desire, and keeping him there, and not letting him go. Ever.

Yeah, that could be good.

Jim realized that his ruminations had distracted him, for when he looked up, there was his partner. Jim had always thought the phrase, "his heart leaped in his chest" was a figure of speech. Not so, apparently, as he caught sight of his friend. Sandburg's relieved expression told Jim all he needed to know.

Blair held out his arms and Jim slipped gratefully into them, relishing the touch he had craved; squeezing hard. "I have a doctor in the family! Congrats, Dr. Sandburg. I knew you'd wow them!"

"Did you? Well, they were glad to get rid of me, I suppose."

"Don't say that," Jim said, aghast. "I'm sure you'll have a very illustrious career."

Blair kept one arm around Jim, and turned them toward the parking lot. "What career? No, I'm out of academia pretty much. That's over."

Jim stopped dead in the sidewalk. "What are you talking about, Chief? You just got your PhD! You can still be an academic and a cop."

"Oh, sure; but not an academic and a Shaman. Haven't I told you about Michael Harner?"

"Yeah, the guy who founded modern shamanism who got laughed at. So what? Are you planning to go to the academy at all?" Jim's jaw tightened.

Blair's tone was confidential. "I could do it. But I'm getting that old Sandburg restlessness, Jim. I think the walking sticks are a sign. Haven't you felt it? I feel the need for a spiritual journey and cleansing, just like dear old mom taught me." Sandburg's eyes sparkled mischievously. "You wanna come walkabout with me?"

He did, indeed feel it—the restlessness, the need for something new. He didn't know exactly what they were going to do, but he was very much afraid that his nice, settled life was going to change. He struggled with conflicting urges to lock his Guide up and never go out again, and a need to get the hell out of Dodge. For now, though, he'd settle for getting out of Santa Barbara.

***

They drove straight home, getting into Cascade at dawn. Their drive was comfortable, with little said. They held hands most of the way, self-consciously but happily.

Jim was standing in the kitchen when Blair walked out of his room that evening. Stretching gently, he eyed his Sentinel with some satisfaction. More relieved than he thought he would be with the completion and letting go of his academic career, he was beginning to look forward to the next stage of his life. Tonight was a time to celebrate, to mold new patterns. And he had more than a few ideas.

Blair moved up close behind Jim, placing a hand gently on his back, the sensitivity between them blazing to life with that one touch. Blair was fully aware that Jim was getting touch deprived, because he was, too. He knew exactly what he had been doing by denying the touch they so needed. The Shaman in him was also aware that since the fountain, there was a deeper connection between them--like a tug on his aura. Blair felt it as a sensation in the pit of his stomach; he wondered what his Sentinel felt. He didn't wonder if Jim had noticed their heartbeats were in synch. That was a given.

Pitching his voice low, Blair murmured, "Why don't we skip a big dinner for now and just eat something light? I've got something I'd like to try."

Jim turned around slowly until he was leaning against the sink, not making any attempt to move out from under Blair's hand. He smiled at Blair, and Blair's heart went ka-thump. Jim smiled wider. Unable to stop himself, Blair felt a smile growing on his own face. "Just thought it was time to celebrate properly. You know, like a rite of passage."

Jim rolled his eyes good naturedly. "Don't start quoting van Gennep to me. I've heard it all before, you know."

"Ha!" Blair bounced a little, keeping his hand on Jim's abdomen for balance. "I thought we'd try a little . . ." Blair let his voice drop just a touch further . . . "experiment. With touch."

Jim said, letting a hint of steel into his voice, "Experiments, Chief? I thought we were done with those."

Blair pulled away and started getting the ingredients for a snack together. He would have preferred to do this fasting, but knew better than to spring that on his partner.

"You and I will never be done... " He stood up, dumping a bunch of groceries on the counter. ". . . with experiments." Shooting a look at Jim, Blair conveyed plainly that this pause had been intentional. "I never said they were academic experiments. Think of it as . . . recalibrations."

After eating a dish of dried fruits and couscous ("for energy") and washing it down with plenty of filtered water, Blair sent Jim off to a long, hot shower. "And take off those jeans." Blair heard a chuckle from upstairs. "I mean, put on some sweats or workout wear."

Jim poked his head over the railing. "First you want me to take off my jeans and now you want me to slip into something more comfortable." Jim shot a shit-eating grin at him, and made a clucking, sort of tsk noise.

Bastard was flirting with him, Blair grumbled to himself. Nevertheless, he went about his preparations while Jim was in the shower. Jim came out of the shower looking edible. Relaxed, flushed, wearing black knit pants and t-shirt, Jim looked eager. Predatory, even. Blair concealed a smile.

Handing Jim a glass of champagne, Blair fiddled with the music controls of their stereo. His iPod began to play a synthesis of drums and didgeridoo; not too loud, not too soft. Blair had pushed back the furniture, candles lit, vanilla and cinnamon bark simmering on the stove. "Champagne? Won't that skew the results of your test, Professor?" Jim looked suddenly like he had sour grapes instead of fine champagne on his tongue. "I guess I don't get to call you that anymore."

"Oh, Jim, it's okay. And I told you—it's not that kind of test. This time is just for us." Blair sipped his champagne, but looked at Jim very seriously. "This is for the Shaman and his Sentinel. I think we need to recalibrate for the next phase of our lives."

Jim said, plaintively, "Are you going to explain the weird stuff yet?"

Ignoring the question, Blair started to sway with the music. "We never really did that much with touch. Did you ever wonder why?"

"Sure we did. We tested all those fabrics, and you did the work of choosing skin sensitive products. That stuff. Uh . . . did I ever bother to say thank you for all that, Chief?"

"You're welcome, Jim. But—there's so much more, frankly, that I could have done."

Jim frowned and reluctantly let himself be pulled by the hands into dancing. "Well, why didn't you?"

Not replying right away, Blair simply began dancing to the beat of the drums. Swinging his arms and Jims, he began to circle and sway, his whole body responding to the music. Blair thought Jim was so cute, as he awkwardly sought to copy his partner's movements. Blair knew that Jim wasn't awkward in the least, but he could be so puritan about some things. "Well, why don't we ever dance?"

"Because we're two guys?"

"Oh, come on, Jim. I know you don't believe that." Blair could feel his eyebrows go up and down, entirely involuntarily. "I think we need a few tests that go beyond skin sensitivity, but relate to your sense of touch." Continuing to dance, Blair spun away. "Like balance. Like your kinesthetic sense. Rhythm, air pressure—you ever wonder why I didn't test those?"

Jim just shook his head, gazing at Blair with shining eyes, mesmerized. Blair noticed Jim was starting to relax into the music. He danced closer, intimately sliding his body from side to side against Jim's front.

"Because dancing is life. I want to dance with you."

Jim's arms snapped around him like industrial strength vises, pulling them close together. He bent down and Blair's world turned upside down as they kissed. Finally, he broke away, laughing, and jumping. "Yes! Come, love, dance with me!" Blair stomped his feet. "Get in the rhythm. Let the beat get inside you. Move the front, move to the side. Come, Sentinel! Your Guide calls you! Feel your body as it balances in the cosmos; let your spirit out."

Blair watched with affection as he put Jim through his paces, the music always in the background, teasing him as much as he dared. Dancing closer, and speaking softly, knowing Jim could hear him, he said, "I want you to feel me. Close your eyes and find me in your mind. Feel the heat and energy from my body. You feel it?"

Jim nodded, his fine-boned face assuming an ethereal concentration. His head moved unerringly, following Blair's movements. "Feel and anticipate my movements. You don't need to see me. Concentrate on your sense of touch. Feel the vibrations through your feet, the air currents, the echoes as I stomp."

Blair continued softly. "I want to touch you all over. Every inch. Your ears, your toes, your navel. And everything in between. Jim, I feel it so strongly, like I'll die if I don't get to touch you."

Jim's eyes popped open at that, pinning Blair with his stare. The predator looked out of the blue orbs. Blair felt his heart beat speeding up. "Down boy," Blair said, breathless but amused. Damn, but it felt good between them like this! He motioned Jim to sit down on the cushions he set out. Jim made to kiss Blair again, but Blair held up his hand. "Meditation now, Jim."

"Meditation? Now?" Jim gave Blair his best, "are you crazy" look.

"Jim, you said you wanted to know about the weird stuff. What weird stuff?" Blair was honestly curious.

With a put-upon sigh, Jim sat opposite Blair, blatantly adjusting himself and giving vent to a, "I thought we were going to get to the touching."

Blair laughed. "Oh, we'll get to that."

"You're entirely too fucking cheerful, you know that, Sandburg?" Jim said, with a scowl that only subsided when Blair fit the soles of their bare feet together, letting the connection fill them up. Blair had to admit that the feeling—just touching the skin of Jim—was rapidly being upgraded to not only erotic but weird.

"Are you having dreams? You noticed our hearts beat in synch? That we hate being apart and are more comfortable touching each other? That we are in textbook-perfect health, after being injured so recently? That other people's emotions are clearer? That our senses and emotions are also clearer? *Those * weird things?"

Jim sent him a medium-grateful look. Blair sighed. "What, like I haven't noticed? I've been paying attention. I've just been processing."

"So, spill. But fast, 'cause we have some touching to get to, too." To emphasize his meaning, Jim began rubbing his hands slowly over his own body, watching Blair's eyes watch his hands. Jim's nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply.

Oh, God, Blair thought, trying to ignore the straight-to-the-balls sight of Jim scenting him. "Jim what are your dreams about?"

Predictably, Jim looked away, trying to deny any such things, before responding. "I dunno, lots of very vivid ones."

"Any recurring themes?"

"Mountains, deserts, landscapes. Lots of different places." Jim sighed. "Circles. Stars."

"Circles?" Blair scratched his freshly shaven shin. "Like, crop circles?"

"Crop circles? You mean the made-by-aliens kind? Maybe. Not specifically. I dunno, just—." He made a motion with his lands. Large, round. "Rings, Chief. That's not what, uh. . . not what you're getting?"

"Well, mostly, like I said, I've been getting a strong urge to wander; to get out of here and see the world. To make contact with some of the spiritual and precious places on the earth. I think this would benefit both the Guide and the Sentinel.

"Jim, I hope you're prepared for more weird shit. I know you don't like it, but you signed on for it. Right? Am I right? Full cooperation. No more reservations. You can grumble, but not balk. For I gotta tell you, Jim, I feel a whole lot of Shaman freakiness coming on." Blair searched Jim's face for acceptance.

Jim wiggled his toes against Blair's while he thought it over. "I can still grumble, right?"

"Sure. I'll allow you grumbling rights."

"You'll allow, will you?" Jim asked, smiling.

"Duh, Jim. Get with the program."

It was Jim's turn to laugh. The sight made Blair ridiculously pleased. He was really beginning to look forward to what Jim would be like as a lover. Blair allowed himself to be pulled against Jim's side with their backs against the couch. They both sighed deeply as they clicked together like two halves of a magnet.

"Those circles, now. That's interesting. I'm dreaming a lot about shadows, and light, and smells, and sounds. It is all very vague, but meaningful. Suggestive, you know?"

"Sounds like regular old dreams, Blair. It's natural you'd have dreams about the senses."

"Yeah, but I'm getting another feeling from these dreams. I'm going to have to do a lot of meditating on this, Jim. It will take some time. Can you be patient?"

Jim pulled Blair's hands up into his. "I can be as patient as you need, Blair."

"I just mean with the weird stuff, okay, Jim? Gotta go with the flow, let insight come to me. There's a reason why wizards always couch their instructions in riddles, you know."

Jim shrugged. "We got time."

"Yeah?" Blair searched Jim's face again for a time. Finally, he got up, and retrieved a bowl of strawberries from the refrigerator. Extra sweet, small, locally grown and organic, they were among Jim's favorite foods.

"Strawberries and champagne? What's the occasion, Chief?"

"I don't want you to zone, so I'm feeding you strawberries." Dipping one delicately in his glass, Blair leaned forward and placed it on Jim's tongue.

"And besides, there's a time for romance, you know. Gotta have a date to mark as an anniversary." He stuffed another Blair-and-champagne flavored strawberry in Jim's mouth. "I'm going to be blunt, here, Jim, so there are no misunderstandings. I'm in love with you. This is us now, together."

Jim swallowed and dodged another strawberry-bomb aimed at his mouth. "Chief, I love you, and we're taking that trip together. Forever."

"Good. Now take off your clothes."

"What, no foreplay?"

Blair gestured. "I'm going to give you a massage. Touch, remember?"

Jim sighed. "Sometimes you have an odd sense of timing, you know that, babe?" He crawled over to Blair on his hands and knees. Straddling him, he leaned over and started to kiss. Softly, wetly, Blair felt his mouth invaded. Jim moaned. "I want to make out. You want to meditate. Is this how our relationship is going to be?" Jim's tone was teasing, but his body was saying serious things.

"I love you," Jim said again softly. "Now, you said something about taking off clothes?" He leaned back and peeled his t-shirt off, tossing it away. "You, too, Chief."

Blair tried to demur. "I'll be cold."

"You'll just have to massage me—harder. And besides," Jim looked him over greedily. "I'll let you keep your shirt on."

"Oh, you'll let me."

"Damn right, Blair. Get with the program."

Laughing, they removed the negotiated items, and in short order Jim was naked, prone upon the cushion, covered by towels. Blair poured massage oil minutely spiked with cinnamon over Jim's broad back. Jim squirmed.

Blair proceeded to touch Jim, delighting in the physical connection between them. As the music changed again, both men were startled into chuckles when a series of howling wolves came on before continuing on to a thunderstorm on the plains. Blair's hands moved everywhere on Jim's posterior side, from his close-shaven head to the tops of his ears to the back of the neck, and downward. His hands felt hot, almost burning, either with the cinnamon oil or some other energy.

As he massaged Jim's heavy muscles, he let himself sink further into the trance primed by the music, and closed his eyes, letting himself feel. He imagined the breath of the winds cooling the flesh heated by his hands. He imagined the light dancing and flickering over the magnificent body he was caressing. He breathed in the cinnamon from the oil and let it pool warmth all around them. He felt his own body respond to the sensual banquet. He felt his erection swell and throb where it lay against one firm buttock. He felt their hearts, still beating together.

"Chief? Chief! Blair? What are you doing?" Blair felt his canvas move as Jim twisted his body around. "What were you doing?" Jim was looking at him in consternation.

Blair was confused. "Just massaging."

"Just—" Jim let out a breath, which expanded his chest interestingly. "Okay then, how 'bout you do my front." Jim's eyebrows went up and down, in unconscious imitation of Blair. Entirely involuntarily, Blair was sure.

Blair looked at the feast before him. "Nah. How 'bout we just make out?"

Finally able to touch every part of Jim, Blair reached eagerly toward him. Jim showed his eagerness by immediately stripping Blair of his last remaining article of clothing, and rubbing his entire torso luxuriously against Blair's furry chest. They kissed deeply, and began to squirm strongly against each other. Jim murmured, "Touch me, touch me, baby, please," over and over, beginning to growl and moan. Blair thought he was going to combust from Jim's sensuality.

They ended up fished against the couch again, Jim sitting in between Blair's thighs, facing away from him. Blair's hands—his magic hands—smoothed liquid heat all along Jim's front, from his inner thighs to his nipples. Jim was tense, his neck and back arched, his cock red and inflamed, bobbing in the air. Blair now used his voice to soothe and arouse. He nestled his head in the curve of Jim's shoulder as he maneuvered them into the position he wanted. He started to take little nips and soft nibbles of the strong neck and jaw. Jim moaned louder, writhed more.

"Shussh, Jim, I've got you. That's right, god, you are so beautiful." And on, and on, as he continued to torment Jim's body, directing little puffs of air as he spoke toward Jim's weeping erection. Perhaps no one else could have felt them, but Jim certainly did. Jim was starting to beg.

"Please, Blair, please . . . "

Blair chuckled. "Can you say 'extra touch-feely'"?

Taking advantage of Jim's distraction, he questioned, "What happened before, Jim, when I was massaging you?" He leaned over surreptitiously to grab the lube.

Jim panted. "Shit," he cursed, recognizing Blair's tactic. "I got – it seemed—″ He groped for words. "The smell was strong, really strong, and the light—" Blair tweaked a nipple, hard, and Jim shouted out, "It was weird, okay? Something was happening. You were doing something, Chief. I don't know what! I don't know!" Jim was almost sobbing, now.

"Okay, Jim, it's all right, we'll talk about it later. It's all right."

Blair dribbled a little of the lube down his own belly, where his hard-on was rubbing against Jim's ass. He began to pump his hips, sensuously rubbing his dick up and down Jim's crease, causing Jim to gasp and stiffen. But Blair just reached over and grabbed Jim's cock with his slippery hands. Jim stilled for just a minute, as energy flared between them through the intimate connection, and then they both relaxed against each other, focused on their twin centers of pleasure. Jim's hand came to join his mate's around his cock as they began to stroke slowly but firmly. Blair's other hand held Jim's hip against him as he ground his slippery erection faster against Jim. Both men's faces contorted into a rictus of joy as they headed toward completion. He felt himself open to Jim in a way he never had before. It felt like they were speeding through the universe, getting closer and closer . . .

And then they were there. Slamming into each other in the physical and astral planes, their souls combining with each other like a collision of atoms. Blair lost contact with even the physical sensation of touch, his focus all along, and felt his essence simply float.

"Aw, damn. I missed seeing Jim come," was Blair's first coherent thought, much later. Then: "We'll just have to be face-to-face next time."

He realized Jim was cleaning him.

"You okay in there, Chief? Did you go to La-La Land?"

"Or somewhere."

"More weirdness?"

"Nah. Just Jim and Blair and great sex."

"Okay. That I can handle."

"Good, 'cause I gotta tell you, man. I'm getting a rather severe calling to explore this extra-special Sentinel and Shaman connection."

"Me, too. And it involves you, me, and the bed upstairs. Preferably for several days. No phone, no worries, just a feast for the senses. We can make plans or whatever later. Much later."

"Sounds perfect."

***

This, then, was it. The end of limbo, and the start of something new. They were both looking forward to it.


	2. Walkabout

Jim indulged his inner Sentinel that night by cocooning them in a nest of blankets, pillows, and love for several days. When they came up for air, they went out and bought boots, back packs, and travel gear. And laptops—the latest, lightest, most powerful they could find. "Have laptop will travel," joked Sandburg.

They packed up and secured the loft, making arrangements to have it looked over for their infrequent visits home. Both men wanted the safety and comfort of knowing they had a home to return to. They gave their neighbor info on their plan and their emergency contacts (Simon, Stephen, and Naomi's email address). They said goodbye to all their friends. ("Yes, we really are leaving. We're going to start by hiking the Alps. A very traditional pastime, you know, with a certain segment of society. In fact, we're bringing our sketchbooks, our binoculars for bird watching . . . .") Most of their friends by now recognized Blair's obfuscations, but they let it go.

Although they did in fact start in Europe, where the sight of backpacked travelers was common, they quickly widened their route. Turns out Sandburg really did know every spiritual retreat center and resource in the known world. Thanks in part to Naomi's contacts, they easily found places to stay and work. A few months in this Tibetan monastery; a few weeks in that yoga or Wiccan center. Jim exercised his grumbling rights at some of the weirder stops.

The traveled rough and made do with very little money. Sometimes they rented bikes or motorcycles. Blair presented himself as a writer. He even obtained press credentials. He wrote grant requests like crazy, getting them money from all sorts of places to live on. Jim was the photographer. When pressed, he would nod toward Sandburg and say, "I'm his bodyguard." It was the literal truth, after all.

Blair, of course, was a determined seeker when he set his mind to something. He sought out and consulted with every wise man or guru in his path. He spent long hours meditating, cultivating trance states through drumming, dancing, or even traditional hallucinogens (over Jim's protests). And he continued to learn, write, and teach, although most of the articles were in the popular press, not the academic. He established a well-read blog about their travels and his spiritual seekings. He set up a forum dedicated to problems with the senses; he published travel articles, together with the photos which Jim enjoyed taking; he worked on a series of young adult novels featuring a young man with a heightened sense of smell. "Gotta keep it justified, Jim."

Jim found that sharing travel with Blair opened up a new world of sensual delight to him. His Guide was always quick to point out unique sensory experiences: Sunrise at the Taj Mahal, the scent of cardamom and cinnamon in the bazaars, the sounds of drums and primitive percussion instruments, all the richness of the planet enhanced their lives.

Blair also engaged them in a variety of sensual experiments, or "recalibrations" as he called them, as well as educational opportunities designed to add to their Sentinel and Guide toolkit. They studied martial arts wherever it was offered, and frequently worked out and sparred together. They became very adept with the defensive capabilities of the walking sticks. They kept their diet spare for the most part, and paid attention to their bodies, an inevitability given the intensely intimate awareness between Sentinel and Guide.

Jim vacillated from feeling like a retiree out with a young boyfriend to a serious protector, but he found plenty to keep himself busy, with Blair's encouragement. To his vast surprise, he found himself filling the boring in-transit hours by getting a masters degree in history, entirely online. "What, you have something better to do with your time?" Blair had teased. Jim also contributed photos and paintings to their projects. What he saw, he could capture through a lens or draw with amazing accuracy. Blair theorized it was another connection between the Sentinel sense of sight and kinesthetics. A set of drawings by Jim depicting historical weapons from museums around the world in astounding detail quickly became a collectors' item.

Jim also helped organized their volunteer work. Thanks again to Naomi Sandburg's connections, and to Blair's grant-writing ability, they worked for various charitable and conservationist organizations, like Amnesty International, and the World Wildlife fund. Some of it was straightforward, some of it was heart-wrenching, but they managed to do some good, Jim felt. They stopped those snow leopard poachers in Pakistan, helped build new hospital wards for victims of mass rapes in Central Africa, and organized community watch groups in India.

Blair became scarily good at the Shaman stuff over the next few years, and was getting quite a reputation as a healer and teacher. Every guru glommed on to Sandburg the minute he showed up, perhaps pre-prepped by the lovely Naomi, or perhaps just intrigued by the recognizable aura of authority and light that Blair projected. His Guide seemed to be able to manipulate the senses of those around them. Jim tried not to think or talk about it too much, because the only term he could use was magic, but he could perceive it just fine. Blair could make shadows seem darker and more impenetrable, make noises seem louder or softer, could amplify available light. On more than one occasion, they were able to pass by unnoticed in situations where Jim felt they were in plain sight.

Africa was particularly hard for them. They rented motorcycles and concentrated on viewing the natural wonders, and staying away from those suspicious of witchcraft. Even in the cities you got a lot of that, and the two of them, traveling together, with Blair and his staff—there were lots of suspicious looks thrown their way, at the very least. Twice, they had real witchdoctors actually chase them out of villages. Local toffs didn't like them either, and the two had to downplay, obfuscate, or simply hide from more than one gang of thugs who didn't like the look of strangers.

They made a pact they would only get involved if necessary for the succor of innocents. They wouldn't inject themselves into local politics or criminal investigations. Mostly they tried to stay out of trouble. They really did try; but it just wasn't in their nature.

Once, they had an alarming encounter with an old army buddy of Jim's while crossing into Pakistan. They were pulled off the train by customs inspectors and into a cramped room of the train station. This old army buddy was now the assistant to the US Embassy to Pakistan. Officially. Jim knew he was CIA. Although both Jim and Blair protested their innocence, their detaining, and their refusal to get involved, Jim knew this guy as a decent man for a spook. Reluctantly, after he had practically begged for their help, they agreed to accept the guy's contact info "just in case you hear anything we should know."

And in fact, they paid back that "old friend" by stumbling onto a terrorist plot. Jim and Blair surveilled the terrorists while sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the apartment in which the men were plotting. It was remarkably easy to hide in plain sight in a crowd, although table service sucked when they did it. Jim made a phone call, giving names, dates, and the gist of the plans he could overhear, and told the guy, "Don't call us. We'll call you." Nevertheless, Jim and Blair were still uneasy about official recognition of their talents. The next stop was a commune in France, where Jim sequestered them and didn't let Blair out of bed for a week.

Blair's personality and quick tongue got them through most situations, but not all his skills were so mundane. One time crossing a border in Indonesia, Blair created a distraction by throwing his voice in a shout some distance away along with a concussion of air, a flash of light, and seeming stench of gunpowder. Blair had grabbed the passport stamp as the guard rushed away, then grabbed Jim and pushed their bike across the border. They clung to the shadows and the guards ran right past them in their panic. A little beyond the border post, they started the bike; the sound of the engine seemed muffled. They traveled a long ways that night. Later, when Jim asked Blair how he did tit, Blair laughed. "Come on! At least half of that No See Um stuff is you, Jim. You know—hunter magic." Whatever, Jim thought. It came in handy.

As they traveled, Blair made a point of connecting with the Earth's treasures--not only man-made treasure (which meant lots of museums) but also nature's bounty. They went to the high and windy places, the humid water places, the cold and the scorching; they went to sacred places, both celebrated and obscure. Jim wasn't blind to what they were doing, and often he felt the power of these places and their connection with the earth strongly. As they made their pilgrimages, he could tell their Sentinel and Guide abilities were developing; they had extra vigor, were strong, and fast; they healed quickly when injured. Occasionally, they felt a pull towards or repulsion away from particular places. Once in a while, Jim saw ghosts. Sandburg saw them, too, especially if he was touching Jim. "Relax, Jim, communicating with the spirits is what a shaman is all about." They helped those unfortunates when they could.

Some of Blair's seeking was definitely sexual in nature. When they made love in some of the power places around the world, sometimes there was an added dimension. They used their male energy to pin themselves to the Earth, spilling their seed into Mother Earth herself. Jim remembered one time in a Buddhist monastery high in the Himalayas. After an intense climb, they were greeted warmly and ushered into a bedchamber.

Blair had hauled him into that big, if hard, bed, and proceeded to teach him everything he knew about Tantric sex, and some things no one else knew about it. To the backdrop of endless chanting, Blair guided them through amazing, powerful, incredible sex, allowing their bodies to establish a joined trance by breath, by rhythm, by the beat of their hearts. Blair would pull up the energy created by their joining, up through his spine, setting the chakras spinning. They drank water and fruit juice only, which appeared by their bedside. They ate nothing. When one man orgasmed, they would simply change positions. Jim figured they spent seven entire days connected by phallus.

Once, when Jim couldn't control his orgasm, and came too soon to suit Blair, Blair punished him, by not letting him come for 24 hours. The emission that came after that protracted session, from Blair stroking up through him strongly, hitting his prostrate, blew the top of his head off. His consciousness came flying up with his semen, spreading itself out in a 100 mile radius. His mind was consumed by the sights, the sound, the smells, the emotions, of all living beings in a circle around him. In the earth itself.

It took a long time for Jim to pull his awareness back in toward himself, led back patiently by his guide, through his body. Energy passed back and forth between his groin and Blair's, connected this time through their mouths, through an endless circle. He could almost see the golden glow race faster and faster through them as they sucked each other to completion.

When it was finally over, Jim found himself sitting on a ledge in the weak early morning sunshine. He felt tender and spacey, and like he could really use a good spa. Blair was off saying his goodbyes to his main mentor at this place.

An elderly monk came up to Jim and, in a perfectly understandable American accent, said, casually, "Beautiful morning, isn't it? How far can you see?" Startled, Jim replied truthfully, "About 50 miles, all the way down to the lowlands."

Nodding, the monk didn't seem surprised. "That must be quite a burden." He gestured toward the main building, where Blair was. "The young master. He is merely relearning what he has always known. He's been around for a while."

Jim didn't know what to say to that. The monk added, slyly, "And you're a lucky man."

To that, Jim knew just what to say. "Yes, I am." Nodding. "Yes, I am."

Jim never knew where they were headed. His guide would lead, and he would follow. Maybe it was time to head back to the States. Jim would have to ask Blair not to play his Tibetan chants anymore, though. He just knew the sound could give him a hard on forever after.

 

 

***


	3. Circle of Fate

Jim and Blair had gotten themselves into a bit of a pickle. They had tried to be good, Blair thought, as he clutched his stick and slunk after Jim in the darkness, trying to make no sound amid the looming rocky outcrops. And yet, somehow, they'd fallen afoul of another gang of armed perps. Blair didn't really like to rail against the Universe, but he did cast out a dark thought or two. "Why, Jim?" he muttered sub-vocally. "Why is it always us? Are we mere pawns of the Powers That Be?"

As soon as he and Jim had set foot in Phoenix, Blair knew something was up. Sometimes the Sentinel and Shaman part of them reacted to certain places. Europe, for instance, had a lot of ancient places that resonated with them. He and Jim had once stayed in a little inn north of Stonehenge for nearly two months, feeling the pull of the deeply buried ley lines of energy in the earth. Finally, they had located a gentle mound, unnoticed by archeologists or tourists, covered with typical scrub. They camped there for one night. One night was enough--the visions they both had sleeping on that hill were enough to frighten them right out of the country. They fled to Sweden and holed up in a cozy bed and breakfast for a week.

In Arizona, Blair immediately felt the pull of one of his special "directional" energies. They headed to a retreat in Sedona, where they planned to do some hiking and biking. The first night they both dreamed of the circles again. They decided to make an overnight camp in the mountains surrounding Sedona, planning on viewing the celestial light show which was to occur later in the evening, with an asteroid shower and unprecedented astronomical views of Mars. They set out the next day with their walking sticks and as much water as they could carry.

Unfortunately, Fate had other plans for the Sentinel and Guide. They were climbing a steep hill, clinging to the shadows of vegetation, but heading toward--something. Blair knew it. Jim knew it. Blair just didn't know exactly what "it" was, and now they were being stalked by unknown enemies. Blair concentraed on deepening the shadows around them and muffling sounds. Jim, in hunter mode, pulled him up a crest of the hill and paused to take stock. When they pulled apart, each man headed in a different direction; they looked at each other in surprise. Blair tugged Jim's hand toward an opening in the rock. "Here, Jim. We have to do this way."

Jim looked away down the hill. He shook his head. "No, Chief, I think we should go around." Blair couldn't see Jim's face clearly in the gloom, but his tone of voice was worried. They were armed of course, but there was something odd about this particular band of thugs. Blair didn't know if they were drug runners or merely a drunken band of guys out for a good time, but he was getting a real bad feeling from them. They were still a ways away, but they were clearly pursuing the pair, making inexorable progress down the canyon in their direction. Jim seemed oddly frantic. "I can hear them coming. They smell—wrong, and I don't recognize their weapons. We could be trapped in there."

But Blair knew in his bones they had to go down. "It will be all right, Jim, you'll see." He just pulled Jim along.

He would always remember that furtive, twisting journey through the rock. The tiny auras of small reptiles and animals glowed in the desert night to his Shamanic perception. Their boots barely scuffed the soil. First they went up, then down, all the while expecting the sound of their pursuers. Jim could see just fine, and Blair was able to amplify the imagined light in his Sentinel's eyes and concentrate it on the tip of his walking stick so he could see. His Sentinel was fighting him a bit, reluctance and haste in his every reaction. Those guys were definitely getting closer! From the tightest of spaces, squeezing by fingers of rock, they abruptly emerged into a vast space. The light and pressure Blair and his Sentinel were able to sense changed dramatically.

And suddenly, there it was. The damned ring they'd been dreaming about for years, in all its glory. The dim starlight illuminated an open chamber, casting red shadows onto the object built into the side of the cliff, its ring creating a shining portal for the stars. Blair fleetingly noted the appearance of the carvings around the ring, captivated for now by the sight of the asteroid shower perfectly limned by the circular artifact. Mars glowed in the dead center of the aperture. Blair was forcibly reminded of a similar situation in the pulp stories of John Carter of Mars he read when he was a kid. There had been a cave there, too, right? And hostile Indians? Blair wondered hysterically whether he just thought hard enough, he and his Sentinel could be transported to the red planet of Barsoom.

It all happened so fast. He heard a noise by the door. He turned, expecting Jim to be in a defensive posture, but instead finding him staring into the portal, completely zoned. "Aw, geez." He grabbed for his partner, shaking him out of his zone, and dragged him up against the round thing, selecting a spot partially hidden by a carved outcrop on the side. As soon as he made contact with the ring, however, it lit up.

He vaguely noted humming and mechanical sounds, but his attention was at first fixed on the several large men in strange gear who entered the chamber. Blair blinked. Surely that wasn't Egyptian regalia. Here in Arizona? He glanced up at the ring. The rings began to rotate, and suddenly, a plane of water appeared in the opening. Blair noticed for the first time that the ring clearly marked with symbols and figures. It seems he could almost figure them out . . .

Blair was kicked by the largest mule in the world, and knew he'd run out of time. Blair looked down at his burning chest and gasped out without thinking, "Through the portal, Jim. Get us through! Now!"

The next thing he knew he was awake in the dark with a frantic Jim hovering over him. Blair tried to gulp air and turn down the pain. He seemed to be lying in a forest glade with a beautiful purple light illuminating a circular structure like the one they just left. Wait--that wasn't the moon taking up the night sky. It was a . . . planet?

"Come on, babe, wake up for me, that's it."

"Look up, Jim."

"What?" Jim was far too intent on his life-saving efforts to pay attention to the scenery.

Blair tried to suck in enough air. "Look up!"

Jim did, and it was almost funny. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened and focused. He looked around, quickly.

Blair gasped out, "We have to get back!"

"What, into that trap?"

"Now, while I can still move. Rather get back while we can or we might get stuck here. Get me closer to the ring."

Blair could feel himself getting weaker. He would shut down very soon to repair the damage inflicted on him by the thugs' weapons. But he needed to get them back, so he touched the Ring with his stick. Immediately, as before, his touch activated the object, bringing an unnatural sound to the quiet night. Gritting his teeth, Blair let his mind reach out, reading the deep meaning of the symbols below the plane of thought. His eyesight, though dimming, latched on one of the symbols that he was sure represented Sentinel and Guide; another he was sure meant Earth.

The watery plane manifested again, and Blair said, his lips barely moving, "Bring us home, Jim." He concentrated all his remaining energy as Jim's strong arms enveloped him, and thought, "Earth" as hard as he could while pouring his entire being into the ring. From a tunnel of light and space, he tumbled out on a cold floor. He could clearly hear his Sentinel say, "Oh, shit." And then, "Medic! Please, I need a medic!"

Uh oh. Jim was going to be pissed.

 

***

 

Jim felt every molecule of his being scream as they burst out of the tunnel of light. His senses assaulted him, especially his hearing. If it weren't for the precious cargo in his arms, he would have gratefully succumbed to the darkness, but he was determined to hang on while his partner was in danger. He controlled their fall, and looked up--right into the muzzles of guns wielded by grim looking soldiers. No, he corrected himself; not soldiers: Airmen. What the hell was the Air Force doing in a cave? This was definitely not the same place they had left in Arizona. He glanced back at the ring. Yep, one here, too. He looked down at his partner.

"Oh, shit." He looked up. "Medic! Please, I need a medic!"

A crowd of people rushed toward them. Fortunately, Jim spotted medical personnel among them, and relinquished hold of Sandburg. His bloody hands were forced up at gunpoint, and Jim cooperated, up until the point they tried to separate him from Blair. He struggled, saying, "No, let me stay with him!" Only when they approached him with a needle did he back down. "No, no. Drugs and me don't do well. I'll cooperate, I'll cooperate!"

Jim let himself be led away. He was fingerprinted, allowed to wash his hands, cuffed, and taken to a small room with a table and two glowering airmen armed to the teeth. He could trace Blair's rapid progress through the warren around him with his hearing. The air had the same canned and pressurized feeling to Jim as an airplane, but it felt bigger, somehow. Were they even on Earth?

The image of the pale purple planet hanging in the sky of that anonymous place was burned in his brain. Jim shivered. They were definitely in big trouble. He thought of their pursuers in the cave in Arizona. There was something not quite human about them. For one thing, the weapon that shot Sandburg was no ordinary weapon, and Jim had seen them all.

He was beginning to be very worried.

At least he could hear people working diligently on Blair down the hall. He refused to acknowledge the memory of the smoking, gaping hole in his Guide's torso. Oh, god—they were saying he was critical! He sent all his energy down through the link they shared. Although this drained him, Jim didn't care. He simply put his head down on the table, and allowed his senses to stay with Blair, relieved when he heard the medical personnel say his partner was stabilizing.

After an interminable time, three men, senior officers by the look of them, came in to the room. The oldest, a general, gestured for the airman to uncuff Jim. The next oldest set down a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and a paper-wrapped bundle that revealed itself to Jim's nose as a turkey sandwich.

"My name is General George Hammond. This is Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson."

Eyeing the food, Jim nevertheless directed his attention to the general. "I respectfully request, sir, to be taken to my friend."

"Don't worry, Mr. Ellison, you'll get your chance. Just give us a brief rundown, if you would, and we'll release you to be with Dr. Sandburg. He's in good hands."

Well, it was no surprise they knew their names. He and Blair were certainly in the system, and these people had their packs and passports.

The colonel, who apparently had no patience, added, "Mind telling us what you're doing here?"

"What am I doing here? How the hell do I know? One minute we were in Arizona, the next--" Jim rubbed a hand over his face. "This isn't Arizona, is it?"

"No, son. You're in Colorado. Cheyenne Mountain, to be exact."

Oh, great; not only in the hands of the military, but deep inside one of their strongest redoubts. Sandburg was going to be pissed. The urge to be with his Guide, lending his touch to his healing, was nearly overwhelming. Jim tried to focus on the men opposite him. To Jim's senses, they felt wary, but not hostile. Jim pulled himself together and delivered an unemotional briefing, figuring that the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could get to Sandburg. He told them the simplest version: They were writers and photographers who were hiking in Arizona and they were ambushed by unknown hostiles. He described the men that followed them through the caves, and their escape through the ring.

He was questioned closely about the guys chasing them, their attire, their weapons, and about the exact location of the cave. Jim gave them as much information as he could. When Jim described how the ring lit up, the three men all traded glances. Curious.

"And then you came through our g--ring?" prompted O'Neill.

Jim already hated this part, but responded firmly, "No sir, then we were on another planet." More meaningful looks. Jim decided to eat his sandwich.

"Aren't you just imagining that, son?" the general said in his deep voice.

Jim gave the general his best no-bullshit face. "No, sir. I'm not imagining it. I'm very well acquainted with the skies of this planet, General. And *then* we came back through the ring, and onto your floor." Jim was reaching his breaking point. He felt drained, and the need to be near Blair was making him frantic. "Nice cave you got, by the way. Unusual interior decorating."

The geek—Dr. Jackson—spoke up. "But how did you activate the gate?"

"Gate? I don't know, and I don't care. You'll have to ask Sandburg when he wakes up. Can I see him now, please?" Jim was polite, but insistent.

Acquiescing for now, Hammond ordered him escorted to the infirmary. The general also ordered a cot be brought up, as well as the two men's belongings. As Jim walked away, he focused most of his senses forward, toward his Guide, but let his hearing trail back toward the three in the interview room.

"We have a gate in Arizona?" O'Neill seemed stunned.

"How's his friend?" Dr. Jackson wanted to know.

General Hammond responded, "Stabilized but unconscious. Dr. Fraser says he's incredibly lucky. Now, I want you to collect the rest of your team and see if you can eliminate that threat and secure the gate. Quickly, before it blows up in our faces."

"Can we trust the intel coming from this guy, Ellison?"

"We'll have to, for now. It might be a wild goose chase, but they did come through the gate."

"But how did they activate it?" reiterated Jackson, plaintively.

"I don't know. Worry about it after securing the gate in Arizona! Get moving, gentlemen!"

Jim reoriented his hearing as he finally reached the place his Guide lay. Barely acknowledging the infirmary staff, he lunged forward toward Blair, snatching up his hand. He slumped in relief when he felt the pulse, although it was far too weak. However, a careful sensory examination showed that Blair was deep inside himself. Jim had seen this before. Other than the nasty hole in his chest, Blair looked fine.

Jim took several deep breaths, using his Guide's presence to center himself, before adjusting all the dials. He felt some of the tension leave his body. The oldest lessons were still the most useful.

He looked up at the petite woman who seemed to be in charge, trying for a smile. "Thank you for taking care of him." She gave him a quick, professional smile in return. "I'm Dr. Fraser. Your friend is lucky. His condition isn't as serious as I thought at first. These wounds can be very nasty. But I am worried about his non-responsiveness."

"I've seen him do this before. Blair has studied with yogis and holy men all over, and he's pretty adept at focusing the power of his mind inward, to concentrate on the healing process. I know it probably sounds like mumbo-jumbo to you, but it really does speed up the healing."

Dr. Fraser looked skeptical, but merely gestured toward the bathroom, where their belongings were kept. "I'm told you wouldn't give us any trouble. You better not cause any trouble in my infirmary."

"No, ma'am. No trouble. It's been a pretty intense couple of days, if you understand me. I'm just going to take a quick shower and then sit next to my friend." He nodded toward the cot.

Unfortunately, Dr. Fraser had other ideas, and insisted on first giving him a thorough medical examination. Jim knew all his vitals were textbook perfect but he submitted to the examination with as much good grace as he could muster. Who knew what those "trips" through space did to the human body, after all?

They were left mostly alone after that. Jim was content to hold Blair's un-IV'd hand, letting the connection between them flare, lending his energy to Blair for the repair and reknitting of tissue. It tired him to do this, but they weren't going anywhere for a while. The two armed airmen stationed close by guaranteed that.

He heard O'Neill and Jackson leave, presumably to the location he described in Arizona. The people around here seemed pretty used to this sort of thing. They certainly had a protocol for dealing with unexpected visitors coming through this "gate" of theirs. Did these guys have a protocol for that alien sky, he wondered? Most of all, he wondered about the enemy these people were fighting, because it was very apparent they were fighting *something.*

At about 0400, Jim was dozing, carefully spooned up behind Blair in the infirmary bed, but came awake instantly when Blair stirred. "Hush, babe. It's all right—we're safe for now. We're in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado, detained by the Air Force. They got one of those ring things in the basement, and we tumbled out right in their laps. They may keep us here for a while until they're satisfied, but I don't think they will actually hurt us. Their C.O. seems like a straight shooter, and they've even got a geek like you. So I think you can relax and go under again. I'm just going to rest, too."

***

 

Over the next day and evening, Jim either sat in a lotus position holding Sandburg's hand, allowing his consciousness to expand and disperse while he listened throughout the entire complex, mapped exits, and devised strategies; or he slept curled up in the bed beside his mate.

He was aware of everything in this state, but he didn't stir, even when the medics and the doctor attended to Sandburg's injuries. In the dead of night, he carefully and surreptitiously slipped his penis into Blair, connecting them utterly in the gentlest of lovemaking. By giving his partner the gift of his essence Jim imbued his healing body with all the strength and magic of their bond. He didn't know what the medical staff would think if they found them like that. He only knew that he was sharing his strength so Blair would heal faster.

He was also aware of the normal routine of the Mountain; the changing of the shifts, the preparation of meals, routine staff meetings, and the other everyday occurrences. He heard and felt the activation of the gate thing in the afternoon of the second day, and the activity surrounding that event suggested it was part of the ordinary course of business in this place, no matter how extraordinary it seemed to him. He learned a lot about what they were doing here, some of it very troubling. For example, he heard a few snatches of talk about "snakes," but he didn't think they were talking about rattlers.

On the early morning of their third day under the auspices of the Air Force, Jim became aware of Dr. Fraser examining his partner. Snapping to awareness at the doctor's gasp, he nevertheless remained still as Sandburg's chest dressing was changed. He catalogued the doctor's respiration and heartbeat—way too fast. What was wrong? She smelled scared. Ah, she was upset at Sandburg's rapid healing rate. He heard her walk away, muttering to herself as she made notations in the chart. Human? Why would she think they weren't human?

He felt Sandburg starting to stir, his consciousness spreading outward into the real world. Soon, he would be awake, aware, and far too healed for the doctor's comfort, and they would have to deal with the consequences. Jim ran over the options in his head as he tracked the doctor's movements, listening to the hum of the awakening complex. He needed to talk to Sandburg, and soon. Should they try to escape or find out more about what was going on here?

He heard the doctor's voice as she requested an aide to allow her into the General's briefing, and centered his hearing on the conference room down the hall and one level down. He let his hearing catalog the space as more people filed in and standard greetings exchanged. He recognized General Hammond, O'Neill, that guy Jackson, but there were two other people he hadn't met, a man and a woman. He smelled coffee and heard the subtle sounds of pouring and stirring, wishing he could get a cup.

Hammond began by saying, "I've reviewed the report on the Arizona Stargate. Good job, people. You managed to secure the gate quickly, and to your usual standards." Although the praise was sincere, Jim could hear the dry note in the General's voice at the last.

A cocky voice responded: "Hey, it's just a broken arm, General. Small potatoes. And we did manage to eliminate that Goa'uld lordling before he could send for reinforcements through that gate."

Jim identified O'Neill by his voice, but he frowned at the last. The what?

An unknown, very deep voice was next. "I do not believe that potatoes, large or small, were involved. However, the mission was relatively trouble-free." There was something about that voice . . . Jim shifted closer to his Guide, running his hand gently up and down Blair's arm.

"I would like to hear more about these two men who found the gate, sir. I don't understand how two--tourists--managed to locate and activate a Stargate!" This was a crisp female's voice.

"So would I, Major Carter. Doctor? How are our patients this morning? You said you had something to report?"

"Yes, General, thank you," Dr. Fraser said. "Mr. Sandburg is making a remarkable recovery. Too remarkable, in fact." Her voice betrayed nervousness, and a little fear. Apparently, the others picked up on it, too.

"Have they given you any problems, Dr. Fraser?" The older man's voice sounded very concerned, and the respirations around the table increased minutely, noticeable to the Sentinel. There was a strange smell coming from the conference room, too, which Jim couldn't identify.

"Trouble? No, sir. In fact, they've done nothing at all. Mr. Ellison has either been meditating next to Mr. Sandburg's side—"

"Dr. Sandburg." Daniel Jackson interjected. Heh, Jim thought. Geeks stick together everywhere.

"What? Oh, yes. As I said, he has either been meditating for hours, barely moving, but holding Dr. Sandburg's hand, or sleeping beside him. Model patients, in fact. One odd thing: Ellison appears obsessively protective of his partner. It's my belief that they are in a romantic relationship, which could account for part of Mr. Ellison's behavior, but I'm not sure that's the whole of it. He's always touching Sandburg, either his hand, or foot, or some other place. I asked him about it. He said that his touch let his friend know he wasn't alone. He also said that Sandburg was in a healing trance. For most of the past 48 hours, Sandburg has been non-responsive, his vitals steady but slow. I don't know if it's a healing trance or not, but I can tell you that Sandburg's healing is remarkable."

"How so?" The female again.

"I have had far too many close encounters with zat wounds, thanks to your antics." Jim heard small rustling and fidgeting sounds. Were they all afraid of this woman?

"When Mr.—excuse me—Doctor—Sandburg was brought in, my first assessment was that he was almost dead. The tissue damage was extreme. I don't know how he was alive at all, frankly. The next time I examined him after the initial workup—about an hour later—he was resting comfortably and his vital signs were good. If I hadn't seen the gross tissue damage myself, I would not have believed his charts.

"His progress has continued at a much faster rate than normal. I estimate that the rate is about five times faster than normal, in fact. You would expect a patient with a wound this severe to be in acute care for at least several weeks. Dr. Sandburg's wound, however, is healed enough that I expect him to wake up and ask for a steak-and-eggs breakfast any minute."

Jim snorted to himself from the infirmary. Steak and eggs sounded divine to him, but his partner was more likely to demand bran muffins and vegetable juice.

"What do we know about these men? Do we have any inkling they're not who they say they are?"

O'Neill responded. "As far as we know, General, they are exactly who they claim, and who their passports show them to be. A former Army Ranger and cop, and his geek sidekick from Washington State, travelers and writers."

"Hey!" Dr. Jackson was evidently sensitive about his geek status.

O'Neill ignored the other man, and continued. "The only thing is, sir, that as soon as we started accessing their records, security flags started popping up all over. You'd expect that, with Ellison's record, but they came up for Sandburg, too. State Department, Interpol, Scotland Yard, even the CIA."

The General's voice became alarmed. "Operatives, perhaps? Are they to be considered dangerous? Is there suspicion of criminal or terrorist activity?"

"Dangerous? Well, Ellison's a hard-ass, ex-covert ops guy, with training in explosives, counter-terrorism, interrogation techniques--yeah, I'd say he could be dangerous. But all our contacts say they are good guys. The CIA unofficially regards them as valuable assets; troubleshooters, in fact. Or troublemakers. The State Department and Interpol keep track of their whereabouts as a precaution. They seem to be involved in a remarkable number of . . . incidents.

Jim could hear pages being flipped by more than one participant in the room. Shit, what kind of dossier did they have on them?

"Let's see. They've organized grass roots artisan cooperatives, done volunteer work for every worldwide charitable organization you can name and written and published all sorts of articles on conservation. My CIA guy says they also broke up a human trafficking ring in Uganda, freeing upwards of 300 women and children, and smuggling them across the border at night. There are reports of them identifying terrorist cells, apprehending bands of poachers, bringing in and organizing relief efforts for children dying of malnutrition in Indonesia, tipping the police to child porn rings . . ."

"So, the traveling writer and photographer gig is just a cover," remarked the woman.

Damn it, Jim thought. It's not a cover—it's their life! That other stuff just happens to them.

"Sounds like a couple of vigilante yahoos to me," remarked O'Neill.

"That may be, but it still doesn't explain why or how they're presently our uninvited guests. Is there anything else we know of them that would indicate how they managed to locate or activate a gate?" General Hammond wanted to know.

Jackson spoke up. "General, I think we should speak to Dr. Sandburg as soon as possible. He's a brilliant anthropologist, according to what I've read. There was a scandal about his dissertation, and he's since dropped out of academia, although not from publishing. And there's something else—"

Jim listened intently to the younger man's tone of voice. As a civilian, he could be a help or a hindrance. Jim didn't know what kind of doctor Jackson was, and scientists could be unpredictable.

" . . . not getting the point, Danny."

Oops. Jim refocused on the conversation.

"Hmm . . ." There was a short silence, during which the crisp sounding woman got up for coffee and the team waited for the geek to pronounce. Jim was very familiar with the phenomenon, but hoped his Guide never heard him thinking that way. Unfortunately for the Sentinel's concentration, he could feel Blair beginning to wake. He firmed part of his hearing toward the conference room, even as he grounded himself and his guide in touch. He needed intel!

Blair gasped and flailed a bit, his usual reaction to waking with IVs and oxygen strapped to him. "Hey, it's all right, it's all right, buddy. I'm here, we're safe for now." Jim's sure hands helped his friend come awake and oriented, giving him liquid and checking the wound. The doc was right, Blair was healing well. The wound smelled much better, Blair's fluids and lymph, lungs, and his organs all "sensed" good. Jim thought of the sureness and surrealism of their secret coupling the night before, wondering why he wasn't freaking out about healing Blair with his dick. Guess he really was getting better with the Weird Shit after all this time.

"How long?" Blair rasped out, as soon as he was able.

"About 48 hours." Blair really did look pretty good for a man who was nearly dead just a few hours ago. In fact . . . Jim checked the wound, and said, "How 'bout we get you cleaned up? Think you can sit up long enough for me to get you in the bathroom?" He leaned in closer. "I need to talk to you."

"Okay." Blair just put his arms up, and Jim lifted him, carrying along the IV, into the bathroom, where there was a chair.

"Are you up for this?" Jim turned on the shower.

Blair nodded rapidly. "I'm okay." He wasn't. Jim could tell he was weak and in a lot of pain, despite the drugs administered. "Do we need to get out of here? Jim, we can't let the military get at you."

Jim shook his head wryly. Get at him? Didn't Blair have any idea what they could do to *Blair?* Jim had seen Blair do some things he still didn't believe, and he'd been there for all of them.

"Not yet, Chief. Let's keep our options open right now. I don't want to have to hurt anyone escaping. Their backs are up enough with how fast you're healing."

Jim tried to hear the conference, but he could hear a commotion much closer—at the door to the bathroom. A male medic opened the bathroom door, which naturally enough in such a facility, had no lock. Angered, Jim slammed the door, yelling, "We're fine, thanks."

Unfortunately, he could hear the medic getting reinforcements. Hurriedly, he jammed the door with a stool and turned back to Blair, grabbing the sponge and starting to wash the other man. "Listen to me, Chief. We're in some place called Stargate Command. Stargate—the ring thing, remember? And they're clearly well organized, top secret, and fighting—something."

Of course, Blair got it right away. "There's a threat? To Earth? Coming through that thing? Oh, man . . . you're right, we can't leave." Blair sputtered under a splash of water. "Besides, I have to admit I'm curious."

Ignoring the pounding on the door for the moment, Jim said, "I think we need to figure out what's going on, before we leave. See if they'll let us go voluntarily. Now, shush!"

The agitation of the medical staff outside their door, and the sound of the water interfered momentarily with his hearing. The General and the others were talking about Blair. He could hear Jackson's voice: "Shaman . . . studied the relationship . . . theft of intellectual property. . . yogic healing . . . blog on spiritualism." Shit, he missed that part!

Blair continued, "But what about the ring, man! Did they tell you what they were! We were on another planet. You saw it, didn't you? I didn't dream that . . . "

"Ssh, babe, I'm trying to listen!"

". . . but I've never heard of an individual activating a Stargate without a DHD or an energy source. Is the gate in Arizona different?"

"It was not only the gate in Arizona that activated, Major Carter . . ."

". . . another gate and back again, according to his story, but you're right, I've never head of such a thing."

"Me neither . . . "

"I have." This was a deep male voice, and the strange smell Jim noticed seemed to be concentrated in his vicinity.

"You have? Why didn't you say something?"

"It is of no consequence. A children's story told for amusement, only."

"Well, let's hear it. I could use some amusement, Teal'c." O'Neill was apparently the smart-ass of the bunch.

"I will tell it to you, O'Neill, and you may decide for yourself how useful it is.

"It was told that long ago there were two men who were special protectors of the people. They were called the Walkers, for they traveled through the gates at will, moving from place to place, carrying staves carved with the images of predators. Many fantastical tales were told of their powers and their deeds. It is said they were immortal, able to become invisible, and had the ability to manipulate time and space when the need was great and their cause just. I remember the tales now only because the fact situation is evocative."

There was a short silence. Jim remembered that their packs and belongings had undoubtedly been searched. His glance uneasily went to the sticks lashed to their packs against the wall, carved with Wolf and Panther. The story obviously wasn't about them, but the similarities were striking.

"Jim?"

Jim started. "Nevermind, Chief. Let's get you back to bed."

Blair, who knew his partner's every mannerism and mood, didn't appear to be fooled, but merely said, "Okay. But do me a favor. Next time, stick to the sex dreams, okay, Jim?"

Jim could hear the doctor being paged, and the General ordering O'Neill and Jackson down to the infirmary with her. Uh oh.

"What?"

"The shit is about to hit the fan, Chief. Come on."

Dr. Fraser's voice sounded loud and clear on the other side of the door. "Open this door immediately, Mr. Ellison, or you'll regret the consequences."

Jim moved to the door.

"Wait, what's the plan?"

"It's time for you to dazzle them with bullshit. That's the plan. Why should I have all the fun?"

"What's the best we can hope for?"

"They make us sign an oath not to reveal and let us go."

"Do you think it likely?"

Jim hesitated. "Yeah, eventually."

"Huh. It's that eventually that worries, me, Jim."

The Sentinel opened the door, scowling at the doctor, the officers, and the bully boys behind them. Dr. Fraser immediately started in. "I haven't released Dr. Sandburg to get out of bed or a shower, yet."

Jim fixed the doctor with his firmest look, and stated calmly, "He's fine. I'm a fully qualified medic, and I know how to treat wounds. I'm used to taking care of him. We will be out in three minutes." And he shut the door gently. They could just fuck off and die, Jim thought. He had an injured Guide to attend to!

***

 

It was, in fact, slightly more than four minutes when he lifted Sandburg into the bed again, under the gimlet eyes of the doctor and her crew. He let them re-position Blair to their satisfaction.

Once Blair was tucked back in bed, the injured man turned his wide blue gaze to Dr. Fraser, O'Neill, and Jackson. Jim had been on the other end of that gaze often enough to know exactly how it felt. It was like the lambent light of the moon suddenly flooding your brain. Sandburg could see a lot of things ordinary people never realized were visible.

"So, what do you want to know?"

Three voices sounded at once. The doctor wanted to know about the healing, Jackson wanted to know how he opened the gate, and O'Neill just wanted to know what the hell they were doing here . . .

". . . . Damnit!" O'Neil's voice trailed off.

Sandburg held a hand up, amused. Jim watched Blair organize the mob and have them under his spell. It wasn't possible for a man rousing from near-death to have that much vitality. Jim squeezed the hand he held, harder, sure that some of the shine came from him this time. No one else had to know, that, though.

"To answer your questions, I don't know why I'm healing at this rate. I mean, yes, I've studied yogic medicine and healing practices, and am a pretty good biofeedback artist," he winked at Jim, "but for sure why? No.

"And I'm not exactly sure what I did at the gate." Sandburg watched his audience carefully. "I have some ideas, of course. But it seems to me you people know an awful lot about these ring things which you could share. And who was chasing us? We didn't like the look of those guys."

Jim let Blair draw them out for a little while longer, all the while standing tall by Blair's side. He projected all the confidence and watchfulness he could summon, which was considerable. The message was missed by none. Finally, Jim said, "Look, can you give Sandburg a chance to rest and eat something before you interrogate him?"

"I've not released him from my care, either, gentlemen. Maybe, maybe he'll be ready to meet after a nap and some –jello." She shot a swift apologetic glance to Sandburg. "If so, I will let you know immediately. So, out!" She shooed Jackson and O'Neill away familiarly.

But in fact, Blair went into another healing coma for the rest of the day, and it wasn't until the following morning that he appeared ready to face more questioning. This time, they met in a large room with shuttered windows on one side. Having already seen what was on the other side, the odd echoes didn't surprise Jim.

They were introduced to the crisp woman, Major Samantha Carter, and the man who smelled funny, a huge black guy wearing a non-regulation hat. He was introduced as "Murray." Jim stiffened, his senses alert. There was something inside that guy! "Um, are you quite well?"

"I am fine, thank you, Jim Ellison."

Oh, boy. Jim cast doubtful looks around the room, but no one was saying anything. They didn't seem to be reacting to threat, though, so he looked to his Guide. Blair gave him the signal for "relax, chill out, I've got it under control."

Blair greeted everyone volubly and happily. Jim had to smile at the delight and enthusiasm Blair brought to life. Although some of it was calculated behavior, like now, when he was trying to be charming, most of it was simply Blair's personality.

The general started. "Dr. Sandburg, I've spoken to your partner, and now I'd like to hear from you. I'm going to ask you some questions, and I'd like some straight answers."

Blair was properly respectful. "Yes, sir. And may I just say thank you, for saving my life. Your people were wonderful."

"I'm glad you're feeling better. In fact, let's start with that. My doctor tells me that your wound has healed to a remarkable degree, and that you're nearly ready to be discharged."

"Oh, man, that's great." He tried a big Sandburg beam and bounce, but it was less than ordinarily effective on this bunch. General Hammond just looked at him expectantly.

"Okay, first, I really don't know about the healing. I mean, sure, I'm healthy and I heal pretty fast. I've studied a lot of healing methods around the world, and I have good visualization skills, so I just sorta . . . shut down and let my body do the work. Kind of a concentrated healing trance."

Jim frowned. They were never going to believe this stuff, true or not.

"Perhaps. But it is unusual. We tend to be suspicious of the unexplained around here, as I'm sure you'll appreciate. Dr. Sandburg, this is a top-secret military base. I would like to know what you're doing here."

Damn, but the old man had a pretty good stare. Not many men intimidated Sandburg any longer.

O'Neill spoke for the first time. "You can also start with whether it was a coincidence that you were in that exact place in Arizona. Did you know about the gate?"

"As far as the ring thing goes—you call it a Gate? – it wasn't a complete coincidence we were there. I mean, yeah, we were really just hiking, and camping—we didn't know anything was there, but, you see . . ." He blew out a breath, eyeing his audience measuringly.

"Jim and I have been traveling, as you probably know, writing and studying the sacred places of the earth. Sedona is one of those places. We'd never been there before and decided to stop there before heading back to Cascade for a bit."

Jim had a sudden strong urge to be back home in Cascade, listening to the rain on the roof above their bed.

"So, it's true, you're a practicing shaman," said Jackson. A bit too challengingly, in Jim's opinion. He bristled.

Blair turned his gaze to Jackson, thoughtfully. "I'd have to say yes to that, Dr. Jackson."

Jackson looked taken aback. "Have we met, Dr. Sandburg?"

"No," Blair said. He gave Jackson a very direct look. "I think I would have remembered you." Jackson flushed red to the roots of his hair. Way to go, Chief!

Blair turned his most earnest look on the rest of the group. "Honestly, I don't know exactly what brought us to that cave, General. Jim and I have been dreaming about ring structures for years. I do know that when I saw it, I knew exactly what it was. A portal to someplace else. Maybe I've read too much science fiction in my life, but we certainly went--Someplace Else. Maybe you could tell us where."

"I'm going to have to stress the secret nature of this project, Dr. Sandburg, Mr. Ellison. While you both have Top Secret clearances--"

Blair shot Jim a look at this. Oh shit, Jim thought. Did I forget to tell him about that?

"--if we tell you more, it will be necessary to have you sign non-disclosure paperwork before you leave here."

Now they were getting somewhere! This was the first time that leaving at all had been mentioned as a possibility. Jim and Blair both gave their assurances they would sign whatever paperwork was required.

Carter leaned forward. "You see, Dr. Sandburg, we're puzzled as to how you operated the gate at all. It's not supposed to work that way. We've never been able to get it to work without an external power supply or a special dialing device, which you don't seem to have." She turned her large, intelligent eyes on Sandburg.

"I'm not exactly sure myself. Maybe it responded to the emergency? After all, I'd just been shot. An escape function, maybe? If I could learn more about the gate . . . ." He swung the wheelchair the doc had insisted on toward the windows. "Can you show me?"

Hammond signaled, and the shades covering the windows retracted. Jim stood immediately, putting the other man behind him as he assessed the danger. But Blair scooted around him and gazed out at the Stargate. As the younger man's eyes widened and widened, trying to take it all in, and Jim's eyes quickly scanned every inch for threat, they finally got a look at the mystery that had haunted their lives.

"Wow, that is . . . really, really amazing," Sandburg said in awe.

Neither man realized how much scrutiny they were under, when they both tilted their head in unison, and said, "Huh."

"Huh? What, huh?" demanded O'Neill.

"Oh, nothing, it's just--that symbol there." Blair pointed. "It reminds us of something." After a few more moments, Blair spun around suddenly. "You want to know who we are? How we got through your gates? I can't tell you, really, but I can show you. You see, that symbol there" he pointed again, "is one we know as referring to Sentinel and Guide." Here he goes, Jim thought, and braced his jaw. "That is what we are, Jim and I. And I would like to get closer, if you please."

After a slightly raucous uproar, into which Sandburg shouted an abbreviated version of Sentinel 101, and the brass did their usual posturing, and the three geeks (for Major Carter apparently was an astrophysicist) conferred, the two travelers found themselves downstairs at the launch pad. They got a short briefing on the installation, and then everyone just stared at Blair.

Sandburg looked up at the gate, and up at the control room and said, "Wow, this must take a hell of a lot of power to run." Jim could tell the conservationist in Blair was thinking about the power requirements, and calculating the environmental costs. Blair asked Jim to help him up, out of the chair, and kept hold of Jim's arm as he approached the Gate. As soon as the young Shaman touched the massive device, it lit up. A loud humming sound emanated from the artifact.

"Whoa! What did you do?" exclaimed O'Neill. The guards stationed around the perimeter of the chamber grew noticeably more tense. Daniel Jackson and Major Carter crept up behind the Sentinel and Guide, fascinated.

Blair looked up at the control room. "So, you're saying, you dial this remotely with the computer?"

"That's right," Jackson said. "You mentioned a symbol. What symbol?" He sounded curious.

Blair pointed. "There. That one. Jim and I have seen it before. In Mexico, and in Egypt."

The others exchanged confused looks. "What? Where?"

Jim looked up at the symbol, which clearly echoed the others he and Blair had encountered at the Temple of the Sentinels, and other places. "I don't think they can see it, Chief."

"Really? A symbol just for the use of the Sentinels and Guides. Cool!" Blair focused again on the rings, causing them to begin to rotate. Claxons began to sound, making Jim thankful for his control over the dials. Exclamations sounded and weapons were brought to bear behind them. The circles stopped moving, and three chevrons lit up as they locked on. The watery horizon appeared with a whoosh.

"That's the way to the Arizona gate," Blair said casually. Everyone else stared up at the gate in consternation.

"Look, he's got the Ninth Chevron lit. How is that possible?" said O'Neill.

"Control room confirms we neither dialed the gate nor are powering it. Dr. Sandburg, again, how are you doing this?" Hammond wanted to know.

"I'm not really sure, General." Blair and Jim stepped back away from the ring, breaking physical contact. The gate stayed lit. "I just know that's the way to Arizona."

Major Carter was looking at a hand-held display. "I believe Dr. Sandburg and Mr. Ellison are powering the gate themselves, sir. I have a major energy reading coming off them."

Blair darted a look at his Sentinel, silently communicating that they could make a run for it now, through the Gate, if needed. Jim thought of that transition through the Gate from Here to There; thought of their walking sticks and other belongings upstairs, and replied with a negative look.

"Send a MALP through to confirm the destination. Radio our people in Arizona. Can you keep the gate open, Dr. Sandburg?"

"Oh, sure--it's like keeping my foot in a door."

While they made contact with their other team and prepared to send a mechanical device through the gate, Doctors Carter and Jackson questioned Blair on the address. "We've never been able to get the Ninth Chevron to do anything. How are you doing that?"

"Yeah, and we need the other eight to lock on before it's a viable address."

Blair looked thoughtfully at the gate. "Maybe it's just meant for Sentinels and their Guides to use, then; a kind of short-hand." He just shrugged. "I guess I need only three."

Everyone in the chamber gazed at him in consternation and astonishment.

You got their number, Chief, Jim thought smugly.

***

After being escorted back to the infirmary, where Blair dutifully allowed himself to be bedded down, Sentinel and Guide were left alone, though under guard. Sure they were being monitored, they managed a whispered subvocal conversation under the guise of bathroom activities.

"Jim, I want to get out of here. This is all so big—it's huge, man! I need some time to process."

"Yeah, I'm getting that feeling, like I just want to barricade the door and bundle you up. Want home, Chief. Want the Loft. But I don't see us walking out of here anytime soon."

"I do," Blair replied firmly. "That's exactly what we're going to do. Tonight, in the middle of the night."

"But how're we going to get out of here? In case you haven't noticed, we're in a Top Secret military installation. Guards. Guns. You can't just go wandering around at will. I don't want to have to kill anybody escaping. They've actually been pretty decent to us."

"Don't worry. No killing. I'll take care of getting us out unseen. You figure out the best route and time."

"They're not going to let us go completely, Blair. Not forever; not when it looks like we're valuable to them."

"I know. And we never got the whole story of just what they're fighting, either. But we love to be needed, don't we?" The two shared a grin. "I want it to be on our terms, though, not theirs."

So, later that night—at o-three-thirty in fact, the Sentinel and his Shaman began to creep through the halls of NORAD. Despite being fully accoutered with packs and their walking sticks, no one noticed them. The few people they passed in the hallways were either looking the other way or just looked right past them. The alarms went off as they passed through restricted areas and exit points—but no one seemed to hear them. Their progress was tracked by cameras and glowing monitors, but again those were simply ignored.

The crept along in a zone of silence and darkness, until they emerged into the cold pre-dawn a nerve wracking time later. Hiking to the highway, they managed to convince a trucker to take them as passengers for a stint, then caught a bus to Cascade.

Inside the loft for the first time in two years, the Sentinel took charge, and barricaded the door. Hustling his Guide to the bed, he kept him there for four days before he would let him up. Both Sentinel and Guide luxuriated in their haven and each other, knowing that the world would get along without them. For a while.

They left behind them a hornets' nest of confused and angry servicemen. The first to raise the alarm was the night nurse who, checking on his charges at the 5 am bed check, was shocked to find only a piece of folded paper on the bed. After the alarm sounded (everyone could hear it now), O'Neill read the following:

_Thanks for the hospitality, but we need time to process. Going home. You can find us there if you want to talk. _

Jim and Blair.

O'Neill lifted his eyes from the paper in his hand and asked, plaintively, "Who were those guys?"

***

_"Long ago there were two men, a warrior and a shaman, who were special protectors of the people. People called them the Walkers, because they carried special staffs carved with the images of predators. The warrior's sight was as keen as the shaman's staff was quick. They traveled among the Worlds and Time, lending their talents to the sick and the oppressed. They were bonded to each other for all eternity as watchman and companion. Some say they walk the Worlds still, looking for people in need."_ Jaffa children's tale.

 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story because I can never get enough of Sentinel/SG-1 crossovers, and I wanted to try doing something different with that theme. Sadly, I don't think it's all that different--either I'm not imaginative enough or it's just the nature of the beast.
> 
> The quote in the beginning is from the album "Shaman's Breath" by Professor Trance, and Professor Trance and the Energizers.


End file.
